that traced our progress down the pavement. Of course, I’m not the skittish type, but this utter silence was disturbing. I like the sound of loud voices and thrumming wheels. It sounds like money to me. The calm of this quiet afternoon was unnatural and disturbing. On the other hand, it was a first-rate opportunity for rummaging through offices without fear of discovery.
“What was the address?” French asked.
“Number twenty-eight.”
“Across the street, then.”
We set out across the boulevard, for once without fear of being ridden down by a coach or an omnibus. We walked slowly, searching the doorways for the street number. We found the address of the Bradley Tool Company and stood on the pavement in front of the building, giving it a lengthy perusal.
“You’re sure this is the right number?” asked French
“Yes.”
It belonged to a tobacconist’s shop.
FIVE
“A n accommodation address,” said French. The practice was prevalent in London, with the large number of folks arriving daily from the provinces and lacking a permanent address at which to receive their mail.
Nevertheless, I found it odd that a commercial enterprise like a tool company was using a mail drop. “My suspicions are aroused,” I announced.
French shrugged. “There might be an innocent explanation. Perhaps the owners’ main office is elsewhere, but they want to give clients the impression of a bustling enterprise with a London location.”
I was skeptical and said so. “Who cares where shovels and picks are manufactured, as long as the price is right?” That’s the trouble with these silver-spoon chaps; they’ve no experience in the world of commerce.
“I merely suggested a motive for the firm maintaining an accommodation address.”
“Another motive might be that there’s no such firm as the Bradley Tool Company at all.” I conned the street furtively. “Shall we break in and have a look round?”
“We might as well, as I won’t have a moment’s peace if I suggest that we return tomorrow and speak to the proprietor.”
I must be making progress with French, as he is improving at correctly gauging my moods.
So I played sentry while French busied himself with the lock. It seemed to take an inordinately long time for the prime minister’s trusted agent to pick a simple mortise lock but finally the door swung open and we piled inside, closing the door quietly behind us. We took a moment, letting our eyes adjust to the gloom until we could discern the layout of the shop. It was a tiny place, barely wide enough for two gentlemen to walk abreast, which cheered me no end as it meant that we wouldn’t have to spend much time searching the premises. A wooden counter occupied the wall to our left, with row upon row of glass jars containing loose tobacco neatly labeled in copperplate script and arranged on ledges. On our right were freestanding shelves displaying a variety of pipes and boxes of cigars, matches, pipe cleaners and cigar cutters. The rear wall was bare, save for a closed wooden door.
I stepped behind the counter while French exercised his skills on the door, which presumably led to an office. I hoped it led to an office and not to the owner’s living quarters.
I rummaged through the contents of the counter, composed of last week’s newspapers, a couple of filthy pipes, and a half-empty bottle of cheap brandy.
“There’s nothing here,” I called to French, and received a muffled reply. He’d succeeded with the second lock and I joined him in the cramped closet that did indeed serve as the owner’s office. There was room only for a chair and a small desk, where French had seated himself and was now rooting through the drawers.
“Ledgers,” he murmured, “business correspondence regarding the shop, orders from customers. Ah, here’s a packet of mail.” He drew out a stack of letters and shuffled through it quickly. He extracted an envelope and handed it to me. It was addressed to Peter Bradley
“What was the address?” French asked.
“Number twenty-eight.”
“Across the street, then.”
We set out across the boulevard, for once without fear of being ridden down by a coach or an omnibus. We walked slowly, searching the doorways for the street number. We found the address of the Bradley Tool Company and stood on the pavement in front of the building, giving it a lengthy perusal.
“You’re sure this is the right number?” asked French
“Yes.”
It belonged to a tobacconist’s shop.
FIVE
“A n accommodation address,” said French. The practice was prevalent in London, with the large number of folks arriving daily from the provinces and lacking a permanent address at which to receive their mail.
Nevertheless, I found it odd that a commercial enterprise like a tool company was using a mail drop. “My suspicions are aroused,” I announced.
French shrugged. “There might be an innocent explanation. Perhaps the owners’ main office is elsewhere, but they want to give clients the impression of a bustling enterprise with a London location.”
I was skeptical and said so. “Who cares where shovels and picks are manufactured, as long as the price is right?” That’s the trouble with these silver-spoon chaps; they’ve no experience in the world of commerce.
“I merely suggested a motive for the firm maintaining an accommodation address.”
“Another motive might be that there’s no such firm as the Bradley Tool Company at all.” I conned the street furtively. “Shall we break in and have a look round?”
“We might as well, as I won’t have a moment’s peace if I suggest that we return tomorrow and speak to the proprietor.”
I must be making progress with French, as he is improving at correctly gauging my moods.
So I played sentry while French busied himself with the lock. It seemed to take an inordinately long time for the prime minister’s trusted agent to pick a simple mortise lock but finally the door swung open and we piled inside, closing the door quietly behind us. We took a moment, letting our eyes adjust to the gloom until we could discern the layout of the shop. It was a tiny place, barely wide enough for two gentlemen to walk abreast, which cheered me no end as it meant that we wouldn’t have to spend much time searching the premises. A wooden counter occupied the wall to our left, with row upon row of glass jars containing loose tobacco neatly labeled in copperplate script and arranged on ledges. On our right were freestanding shelves displaying a variety of pipes and boxes of cigars, matches, pipe cleaners and cigar cutters. The rear wall was bare, save for a closed wooden door.
I stepped behind the counter while French exercised his skills on the door, which presumably led to an office. I hoped it led to an office and not to the owner’s living quarters.
I rummaged through the contents of the counter, composed of last week’s newspapers, a couple of filthy pipes, and a half-empty bottle of cheap brandy.
“There’s nothing here,” I called to French, and received a muffled reply. He’d succeeded with the second lock and I joined him in the cramped closet that did indeed serve as the owner’s office. There was room only for a chair and a small desk, where French had seated himself and was now rooting through the drawers.
“Ledgers,” he murmured, “business correspondence regarding the shop, orders from customers. Ah, here’s a packet of mail.” He drew out a stack of letters and shuffled through it quickly. He extracted an envelope and handed it to me. It was addressed to Peter Bradley
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